


ergo

by Siria



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saturday evening, and there the two of them are: curled up on the couch, some stupid movie turned down low on the TV while they debate whether they should order pizza for dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ergo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/gifts).



> Thanks to sheafrotherdon for betaing!

Saturday evening, and there the two of them are: curled up on the couch, some stupid movie turned down low on the TV while they debate whether they should order pizza for dinner. Steve's got his head in Danny's lap, and Danny idly strokes his fingers through Steve's hair while he makes the anti-pizza case. It's not, you understand, that Danny is opposed to pizza. He has no moral objection to the dish, what with being from Jersey—he’s more concerned with the dire probability that Steve will argue for there being some kind of fruit on said pizza.

(Danny's tried, in the past, to invoke a 'no fruit' rule, but that just made Steve get all smirky and triumphant and use his smart phone to look up Wikipedia and demonstrate that a tomato is a fruit, _ergo_ a pizza without fruit is no pizza at all. Danny had pointed out that both his use of the internet and his attempt to rile up Danny through blatant mockery of Danny’s superior command of the English language rendered Steve’s argument invalid. Sadly, Steve hadn’t been swayed by Danny’s logic.)

A smarter man than Danny would have given this up for a hopeless cause a long time back, but what can Danny say—he's a sucker for lost causes, it seems. Especially when said causes come in a package like Steve—all long and lean and hopelessly loyal, regularly causing funny things to happen not just to Danny's head, but to the pit of his stomach and even to his toes (to wit, the curling thereof).

Case in point, right now, with Steve turning his head into Danny's touch, rubbing the tip of his nose against the strip of Danny's belly that's been revealed where his t-shirt's ridden up. Danny cocks an eyebrow at him, tries to fight down the wave of totally goofball happiness he's feeling right now, says, "This is some kind of strategic SEAL thing, right? Some kind of divert-and-distract thing aimed at you getting unnatural pizza?"

"Pretty sure they don't teach this at SEAL school," Steve says, looking up at him, grinning, and stretching in a way that Danny just knows is deliberate. "This is all the product of dedicated extracurricular practice."

Danny sighs. He's never going to build up an immunity to that particular look; he senses that even now. "Fine. Fine. You can have your freak pizza. And stop grinning at me like that! The wind changes, your face will stick like that, you'll look deranged for the next forever. Though what am I saying, how will I tell the difference."

"Pfft," Steve says, sitting up to snag his phone from the coffee table and calling up the number for the delivery place. "You think I'm awesome."

While Steve places the order, Danny enumerates aloud all the ways in which that is just an unsafe reading of the evidence right there—presumptuous and logically unsound, right up there with thinking that things like _shark tanks_ make good procedural sense. By the time Steve's ended the call, Danny's run out of fingers on which to tick off his points, and he has to resort to flinging his hands into the air to declare his conclusion: all right, all right, Steven J. McGarrett is pretty okay, when he is not making it so that people are shooting at Danny, but Danny is not going to go so far as to say _awesome_ here.

Steve tosses his phone back onto the table, looks completely unmoved by Danny's spirited testimony. "You," he says with relish, like this is some irrefutable proof or something, "have feelings."

"Yes," Danny says, poking him in the chest, "yes, I have feelings, because I am a human person and not an alien robot from the Planet Head Injury. Therefore, feelings! That does not mean that any of those feelings are Steve-shaped."

Steve just grins at him, like he knows all of Danny's denials and his protestations are just that—a weak excuse for an excuse. Danny feels his cheeks heat, because jeez, give McGarrett an inch and he takes a couple of hundred miles. "You're incurable," Danny tells him, for the sake of form. "Absolutely shameless and hopeless."

“Yup,” Steve says, loose-limbed and happy, looking like he’s got all kinds of faith in Danny—faith in the things that, even after three months and a truly stupendous number of orgasms, Danny still can’t quite make himself name. It’s like getting used to the sun out here—at first it’s too bright, overwhelming, glinting white gold against the waves. But slowly, slowly, Danny’s getting used to the thought that it might just be possible for him to brave the heat and not get burned—he closes his eyes when he turns to kiss Steve, catching the curve of Steve’s smile against his own—and he’s starting to believe that sometime soon, he’s going to have the guts to open his eyes and Steve’s still going to be right there. And in the meantime, if the press of his body against Steve is enough that neither of them hears the delivery guy ring the doorbell—well, that make it two thumbs up for Danny, right there.


End file.
